


There’s A Never-Ending Story (That Begins With You And I)

by BlackUnicorn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt Crowley, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Picnics, Post-Canon, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Tenderness, Traumatized Crowley, it's tagged as m/m but they're both agender, like really light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 05:10:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20002843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackUnicorn/pseuds/BlackUnicorn
Summary: The thing was, Crowley wasn’t nearly as subtle as he’d liked to think he was and Aziraphale not as oblivious as rumour might have had it and yet…It had started with a garden. The Garden. An Angel and a Demon each with their own mission and the first rain in history.





	There’s A Never-Ending Story (That Begins With You And I)

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the fake footnotes. I'm just a poor gay who, while not as bad as Newt, cannot work computers and I have no clue how to do them properly...
> 
> Also...funny story. I was writing this really cool Stucky thing when I got a really bad writer's block and I thought "hey, let's watch Good Omens. Just 6 episodes. Won't take that long." It kinda went downhill from there. I watched the entire thing in one night. Twice. I then re-read the book. I, then, found myself with a revived obsession of David Tennant even though I'd literally just gotten over that, or so I'd thought, so, naturally, I had to re-watch the first 4 seasons of Doctor Who (which are the best if you ask me) and Broadchurch and, really, what is it with that man and clever characers with questionable social skills and a tragic back story...anyway...Stucky will have to wait. Enjoy.

The sun was shining down on St. James Park in the heart of London, the ducks contently swimming in the pond and paying no mind to the two beings sitting on the bench1. An Angel and a Demon.

It had been a week since the world-had-ended-but-then-kind-of-hadn’t – except maybe it had because things were different now. Armageddon, as it tended to do, changed things, even one that only lasted for a few minutes. Not in the grand fire-and-extinction-for-all kind of way, mind, but rather on a small scale that was barely there, barely noticeable, and easily written off as, well, pretty much anything but what it really was.

The Angel and the Demon had been right there in front row seats with meet-and-great tickets for the after show party when the whole event had been cancelled thanks to a certain eleven-year-old boy that might have been the Antichrist2 at one point or another but really was just painfully human right down to his core.

It was a miracle, except none that had anything to do with divine intervention. Or demonic. A human miracle, if you will.

“I am really rather grateful for what young Adam did, restoring the bookshop, and yet…” The Angel Aziraphale, a short, chubby creature with blond, almost white, hair and a kind smile on his face, sighed.

Next to him the Demon Crowley3 was sprawled out on the bench in a way that should have been physically impossible4 or, in the very least, highly uncomfortable, but he made it seem effortless, elegant even. “And yet what, Angel?” he prompted, glancing at Aziraphale from behind his glasses.

“And yet I’ll always know,” the Principality finished the sentence, “I’ll always know that just for a few hours it was lost.”

Crowley very carefully, very pointedly, said nothing to that, lest, he feared, he might never stop. The memory of the fire, the heat of the flames, it was still there in his mind. The _absence_ of Aziraphale. The Demon swallowed around a rather impressive lump in his throat, forcing down the wave if emotions threatening to sweep over him.

“Good thing it wasn’t then, eh?” he replied instead, forcing his lips into a smirk and rather glad for his glasses that made it impossible to see the truth in his eyes, “Would have been a shame, really…all those books.”

“Now, dear, there’s no need to be sarcastic,” Aziraphale chided, or tried to anyway – the effect was a bit lost underneath the smile and the softness in his eyes. “I did say I was grateful, didn’t I?”

Crowley let out a silent laugher, smirk still firmly in place, because that’s what Aziraphale expected from him, and slowly stood up from the bench.

“So you did,” he said, “You know what I’d be grateful for right now?”

“Do tell.”

“Booze.”

(1 The uninformed observer might have said that they were men. The truth was, they were neither men nor human.)

(2 Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness)

(3 on first glance, he was the polar opposite to the Angel, all long, lanky limbs and sharp edges, and a preference for black clothes, eyes always carefully hidden by a pair of sunglasses. This impression usually didn't change on the second or third or fourth glance...)

(4 for a human, anyway. Joints and bones and muscles where rather optional for Demons and Angels)

* * *

The thing was, Crowley wasn’t nearly as subtle as he’d liked to think he was and Aziraphale not as oblivious as rumour might have had it and yet…

It had started with a garden. The Garden. An Angel and a Demon each with their own mission and the first rain in history.

Before the end of the world, before Adam had even been born, Crowley and Aziraphale would run into each other every other year, sometimes going decades without seeing hair nor hide of the other, and then things had changed for the first time and they had spent their days looking after young Warlock, trying5 to shape him in their respective images to prepare him for the Big Day, and _then_ the Big Day had come and gone and things had changed again.

Whereas before there had been well defined lines and rules to their to and fro and back and forth – a well-choreographed dance that was never spoken of – now the lines had blurred and rules changed, they had lost their rhythm and within that vacuum there was…something.

Something new6.

(5 and failing)

(6 There was nothing new about it. Just because one refuses to acknowledge something doesn’t make it any less existing.)

* * *

Now would be a good time to say that Crowley had always been _aware_.

How couldn’t he be?

The Angel, _his_ Angel, the one that burned so bright it hurt to look at sometimes, who was _kind_ and _good_ , better than all the other Angels put together, who gave away his sword because he _cared_ and then shielded him, the Serpent of Eden, with his wing as if it was the most natural thing in the world…

How couldn’t he be, indeed?

Loving Aziraphale was easier than breathing7, it was a fact that always had been, always would be, and Crowley had long since made peace with it.

Aziraphale on the other hand…well…that was complicated…

(7 that was, perhaps, the wrong metaphor since breathing, like joints and bones and muscles, where optional for him as well but you get the point)

* * *

They were in the bookshop, sitting side by side on the sofa, Aziraphale in proper fashion, his back straight and feet firmly planted on the ground, and Crowley slouching on the cushions, one leg draped over the armrest, the other pulled up to his chest. Three empty bottles of wine stood in front of them on the coffee table and the fourth was on its way to join them, lazily being passed between the Angel and the Demon.

“And – and – and – _tha’s_ why they’re Her bes’ creation,” Crowley slurred, his head thrown back and sunglasses dangling from the collar of his shirt. His yellow eyes were unfocusedly and unseeingly directed towards the ceiling.

“What is?” Aziraphale asked confused, he had lost track of his friend’s argument a good five minutes ago.

“Platypusssesss. Platypi? Y’Know…the thing…with the thing.” Crowley made vague gestures in front of his face, imitating something that could be a bill or could also just be Crowley trying to grab his nose and failing spectacularly.

“Right.” The Angel nodded absent-mindedly and took another sip from the wine bottle.

“Tha’ remin’sss me,” Crowley twisted his body to get a better look at Aziraphale, “D’you have any more wine?”

“I –” _hicks_ “– I rather think we’ve had enough, don’t you?”

“Ehh.” Crowley’s head lolled on his shoulder and made a grabby motion with his hand. Aziraphale, after 6000 years perfectly fluid in Crowley, passed him the wine, thinking that no matter what the future would hold for them, this was something he’d always hold dear.

* * *

Aziraphale on the other hand…well…that was complicated…

It wasn’t that he had been _unaware_ , exactly, but at the same time it would be incorrect to say that he had known.

Denial is funny like that.

You go centuries knowing something but not _knowing_ it. You could stare it in the face and still ignore it, still excuse it for something else, still look past it and through it and under and over it and just _not see it_.

And then the church had happened. 1941. Those damned books.

It had hit the Angel like a slap in the face just how very much he loved Crowley while his stupidly useless human heart danced in his chest to the beat of Crowley’s feet on the consecrated ground before going up in flames with the bomb above their heads and then, _oh and then_ , their fingers had brushed as Crowley had given him the books and the carefully built wall around Aziraphale’s heart had crumbled and broken into pieces because _this was_ _real_.

One of Aziraphale’s favourite hobbies, just after self-doubt and second to earthly pleasures, was denial, and so he had spent the next 20 or so years reconstructing the wall but, like all things that were being reconstructed, it’s never quite the same afterwards – just that little bit lopsided, old cracks, while closed up, still visible, still _there_ , forever a monument of what had happened – and Aziraphale had _known_.

You can’t unknow things once they entered your mind and made themselves at home there, all you’re left with is make them a cup of tea and hope they stay quiet8.

But while the Angel might have been content9 to not acknowledge that particular Thing between them, Crowley had, very obviously, had other notions.

(8 they hadn’t. In fact, they had moved in, rearranged all the furniture and thrown a party every weekend, making it extremely hard to ignore them but Aziraphale was nothing if not persistent)

(9 read: too scared)

* * *

A flask given like an offering – like a promise that _perhaps one day...._

But no.

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

And Crowley had been left with a broken heart and a way out…not that he had used it…not that he seriously thought he ever actually _would 10_. It wasn’t quite his style…suicide.

And yet…

Crowley remembered the Fall. He remembered Heaven. He remembered Her. An all-encompassing love, a warmth and a light that was _there_ and then it _wasn’t_. Not simple absence of presence but _presence of absence_ , a hole ripped into his very essence so deep and so painful and so all-consuming and then…nothing.

This was a little bit like that except worse.

Crowley hadn’t meant to Fall, he had, however, very consciously chosen to seek out Aziraphale over and over again, to tiptoe closer every time, to hold out his hand and hope that the Angel would take it – always careful, always cautious, always calm.

If Demons had virtues, patience wouldn’t be one of them, but Crowley had never been an ordinary Demon and he had happily waited year after year, century after century, millennia after millennia, for his Angel to catch on and reach back.

In the end, they met in the middle.

(10 though he’d be lying if he said the thought had never crossed his mind.)

* * *

It went like this.

No day was ever truly perfect, but some came close. Like this one.

After a pleasant night of reading his favourite edition of The Picture of Dorian Grey11, Aziraphale and Crowley had gone out to a lovely little café around the corner to have breakfast together, the sun tentatively peeking through the clouds above their heads and dousing their table by the window in warm light. And while the Angel enjoyed his soft eggs buttery toast, Crowley sat by and watched, sipping his coffee and contenting himself in basking in Aziraphale’s presence.

“What are you up to today?” the Demon asked after his friend had finished, dapping the corner of his mouth with the serviette.

“It’s such a nice day today, don’t you think, dear?”

“Sure is.”

“We should spend it outside.”

“We could…” Crowley began carefully, mentally pep-talking himself into reaching out once more and hoping that this time, Aziraphale wouldn’t push him away once more, “We could go for that picnic.”

The serviette on the Angel’s lips stilled as his hands froze and the rest of his body with them, unnaturally blue eyes snapped up to meet a pair of sunglasses that barely contained the sheer amount of emotions Crowley was feeling.

“I would like that very much,” Aziraphale answered, finally lowering his hands and smiling, a smile that brightened the whole room, the whole world, the whole damn universe, and Crowley had to avert his gaze so he wouldn’t get blinded by its radiance.

“Well, come one then, Angel, time is a-wasting.”

They payed, giving the young woman behind the counter a generous tip and most pleasant day, before returning to the bookshop where they collected all that they’d need for a day in the park with more food and drinks than either of them could ever consume.

The park was miraculously empty when they settled down underneath an old oak tree, near the pond, blanket spread out on the soft grass, and the basket set in the middle.

Time was a curious thing for an immortal being. 100 years could pass in the blink of an eye but a single day could feel like an eternity.

This particular day was neither.

This particular day was their own private Eden, a piece of paradise, filled with the smells of good wine, of exquisite cheese, of fresh strawberries and rich chocolate and sweet cakes.

The conversations flowed and rose and ebbed like the tides of the ocean, going this way, then that way, sometimes fast and violent, sometimes soft and gentle, sometimes replaced by silence, but always present, always there, pathing the way to something more. They’d always skirted the edges of it, always walked the line between it – Aziraphale ever more carefully than Crowley – but now, in the After, there were no more rules, no more scripts, no more Plans, ineffable or otherwise, and Aziraphale decided to jump.

“Crowley, would you take your glasses off please?”

Well, maybe he didn’t so much jump as slowly sneak forward. But all the same, Crowley did as asked and revealed his eyes – _those beautiful, stunning eyes_ – like golden embers, wild and raw and _alive_ , and he was looking at the Angel with something akin to curiosity, but also coyness and – fear. Crowley was afraid and it boke Aziraphale heart to see it so clearly now where there should be nothing left to be afraid of.

“I owe you an apology, my dear.”

Confusion joint the mix of emotions as Crowley asked, “What for?”

“I have been rather…cruel, I believe. Stupid.”

“You’re none of those things, Angel.”

Aziraphale smiled sadly. “But I am. I was.” He slowly crept closer to his friend and covered Crowley’s long, lanky fingers with his own. “I caused you so much pain and all because I was too scared. The thought of something happening to you…I couldn’t bear it. The thought of Heaven not being what I wanted it to be…I was naïve. I should have trusted you.”

“Aziraphale.” His name like a plea, a prayer, on the Demon’s lips – _his_ Demon’s lips.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley.”

Crowley shook his head, a barely-there motion, filled with disbelief. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Precisely,” Aziraphale cried out, “I didn’t do anything, when I should have!” He took an unnecessary deep breath, not because he needed it but to give himself the time to collect his thoughts. “Crowley – My love.” The word like honey on his tongue and Aziraphale wished, more than anything, that he had tasted it sooner. “I can only hope that one day you might forgive me.”

“There’sss nothing to forgive,” Crowley said, tears glistening in his eyes, wetting the pale skin of his cheeks, a smile tugging at his lips. “You weren’t ready and I – I would happily wait another 6000 years for you if it just meant I could keep you in my life.”

“You don’t have to wait another second. Not if you don’t want to.”

Crowley’s tongue poked out to wet his lips, forked and snake-like, the yellow of his eyes completely taking over and pushing away the last traces of white. The fingers on the blanket ternately entwined.

“I thought I’d lossst you,” the Demon whispered, averting his gaze and letting it rest on their joined hands, “You were gone. You were gone and I couldn’t find you. I can always find you. Alwaysss. And I thought – I thought they – I thought you – I couldn’t _find_ you.”

A cold shudder ran down Aziraphale’s spine as the true meaning of the words sank in.

_Oh. Oh dear._

“I’m here, Crowley,” Aziraphale assured his friend, his everything, “I’m right here.”

Crowley squeezed his fingers and when he looked back up, the tears were still there and the curiosity and the coyness and the fear, but underneath was a hope and a happiness that was nearly too much to look at. But only nearly. Aziraphale shifted, moving right in front of the Demon, his eyes never wavering, and he placed his other hand, the one not currently held by Crowley, on Crowley’s cheek, cradling it in his palm.

“I love you, my dear,” he confessed into the space between them, “So very much.”

“Took you long enough,” Crowley sniped back, his voice incredibly soft.

“I do think the custom is to say it back.”

“You know I do, Angel.”

And he did. He always had.

“May I kiss you?” Aziraphale asked instead of answering.

Another smile and then they met in the middle, lips brushing tenderly.

(11 _For you, my dearest friend, Aziraphale, may you find better luck and truer love in life than poor Basil who was too blinded by the beauty of the surface to see the hideousness within_ , read the inscription on the first page, _Love, Dorian_ )

* * *

It ended like it had started, with a garden. Not The Garden. A garden. An Angel and a Demon each with their own freedom and the first picnic in the history of many more to come; because the thing was, it didn’t really end here.

It had only just begun.


End file.
